Accustomedthoughhewastothesightwhichhewasabouttoface，GeraldshiveredslightlyasheopenedthedoorofMr。Fentolin’sroom。Astrangesortoffearseemedtohavecreptintohisbearingandexpression，afearofwhichtherehadbeennotraceswhateverduringthoseterriblehoursthroughwhichhehadpassed-notevenduringthatlastrecklessjourneyacrossthemarshes。Hewalkedwithhesitatingfootstepsacrossthespaciousandloftyroom。Hehadtheairofsomefrightenedcreatureapproachinghismaster。
Yetallthatwasvisibleofthedespotwhoruledhiswholehouseholdindeadlyfearwasthekindlyandbeautifulfaceofanelderlyman，whosestuntedlimbsandbodyweremercifullyconcealed。
Hesatinalittlecarriage，witharugdrawncloselyacrosshischestanduptohisarmpits。Hisbeautifullyshapedhandswereexposed，andhisface；nothingelse。Hishairwasasilverywhite；
hiscomplexionparchment-like，pallid，entirelycolourless。Hiseyeswereasoftshadeofblue。Hisfeaturesweresofinelycutandchiselledthattheyresembledsomeexquisitepieceofstatuary。
Hesmiledashisnephewcameslowlytowardshim。Onemightalmosthavefanciedthattheyoungman’sabjectstatewasasourceofpleasuretohim。